In Which Castiel Tries A Potato Chip
by sunshineofthespotlessmind
Summary: When you're an angel, you have thousands of senses. As a human you only have 5, so why is everything so much more vivid? Why is the green in the eyes of a certain Winchester so bright? And why is your body reacting without your say so? pre Dean/Castiel
1. Potato Chips and Passing Out

_This came to me when I realised you never really see much on the experiences of angels newly inhabiting their vessels- from a 'multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent' to a barely evolved monkey must be pretty weird, so here's my version of Castiels experiences-set after he is first summoned by Dean, but I'm not exactly sure when, probably around the time of 'The Great Pumpkin' when he becomes a bit more human. Started out as a drabble, but I got carried away..._

From inside Jimmy Novak's head, everything was different. An angel, even those of the lowest rank, has many hundreds of what humans would call senses, to better observe and understand every facet of the Father's creation. They make it easier to guide, to nurture and in some cases, destroy.

Humans, even as the Father's chosen, had to live with only five senses, and he cringed internally as he remembered how he had sometimes pitied them, in the brief moments he had allowed himself the indulgence of emotion. He had thought, believed in his foolishness they were missing out somehow, that without all the extras they were blind and deaf and nearly dumb. But the five he had, just signals from flesh and sinew with electricity in between, were so _vivid-_ a thousand times richer, more powerful. In his arrogance he had thought, in some small way, that angels were better than mankind, and now he blushed at his presumption.

Had he ever really seen before, tasted before, touched? Now he understood how humans could create such art, the symphonies and obelisks and stanzas that so enraptured the Host. How could he even begin to describe the _passion_ of purple? Or the blueness of blue, the fiery blaze of orange and the soft, gentle green that was only to be found in the eyes of a certain Winchester? The soft curves of a hill in the distance, jutting up to cut through the clouds themselves, trying in vain to reach the Heavens.

He wondered how humans ever got anything done, how they managed to not stop every few moments and stare at the wonder of creation.

Hearing had been another surprise. After the choirs of heaven, and the beauty and colour the angels poured into every song, nothing human should have compared. But here they surprised him again. The rushing of water along a drain gurgled of rivers it remembered, as pigeons flew with a great rushing of wings, thinking themselves eagles. Buses roared like lions, and the clink of change in a pocket brought with it the clash of steel on steel, in the practice grounds of heaven. The range of human voices- the soft, high trills of a girl as she chased a balloon, the warm low tones of a woman to her husband as they danced unashamed on the street. Dean's deep, rich laughter and the soft rasp of his voice.

Stop.

Move on, to something else.

Taste still dazzled him. He'd tried a potato chip that morning- _against orders_, his conscience said smugly- and he tried not to let that worry him. He did not need sustenance, any more than he needed to sleep, but he'd been unable to resist.

He had, in a way, tasted them before in Jimmy's memories, and the man had such a passion for them. Sitting on a worn couch with a packet of salted, fried potatoes with his arms round his wife had been some of his happiest memories. So he'd been unable to resist stopping at a... convenience store to try some, temptation be damned. After materialising some money in the till, he'd pulled out the largest and studied it for a full minute, following the whorls of oil spatter and fat, tracing each minute detail to store for later. He'd relished, and surprised himself by relishing; the soft crustiness of the salt as it sat in the ridges of his fingerprints, and had to restrain himself from laughing aloud at the pleasure of it. He was already receiving stares.

Then he shut his eyes, and placed it in his mouth

It had been, simultaneously, the best and worst experience of his life. It had certainly been the most _intense_ experience of his life, like taking the whole of Heaven and hitting someone in the face with it. It had taken all his will to prevent his vessel from collapsing as pleasure uncurled in his gut, the pure, unadulterated rush of sensation swamping everything aside.

_Oh, my God. _He finally understood that phrase.

And in that understanding, he wondered about another taste. One he would love to try.

_Review/comment? How can I improve?_


	2. Bodies, and Other Irritations

_A.N- This chapter is the poor, confused angels first experiences of the demands of the human body. I need a beta (any volunteers? ;D) so if there are mistakes, let me know and I'll correct them._

The human body, as Castiel was beginning to discover, was the most irritating, inefficient, unpredictable, and exasperating object in the whole of Creation. In his foolishness, he'd compared the taking of a vessel to the pouring of a liquid into a container- the liquid takes the containers shape, but the liquid isn't the container, and the container isn't the liquid. He'd thought he'd be separate, unaffected by the systems and functions that made humans as they were- after all, it wasn't like _he _needed them.

He'd been very, very wrong.

Take the brain for example; a bag of soggy tissue about the size of a large melon, with electricity running between points. It sounded simple, but it really wasn't. He was getting used to the input of sensation, could almost cope with the constant mass of sensory information that the brain filtered out, but after it was done processing, (which it did entirely automatically) it began presenting options, or demands. It was disconcerting; humans weren't individuals, they were, each one, a team; a loud, irritating committee of voices, which most of the time were unable to agree on anything.

It did thinking all by itself, completely unasked, calling up past experiences and stores of knowledge whenever a topic was mentioned, offering themselves for perusal. Sam mentioned a haunting; and without any effort the brain referenced, cross checked and collated a file on every relevant being, location and motive he had ever observed in one. He looked at Dean and it stored away the memory for future use in an area he didn't look at, filled with thoughtshe'd rather ignore.

It wasn't as if he was warring internally with Jimmy- no, the good man slept, peacefully as all vessels did, blissfully unaware of anything Castiel was doing. Which was a blessing, truth be told, because he would probably have been horrified by the ineptitude of his angelic driver. It had taken him the better part of a week to remember that humans were not incorporeal, and so walking through walls, buildings and other objects was no longer an option. He also seemed to cut himself with alarming frequency, and this wasn't a problem in itself, since they healed almost instantly, but it seemed to speak of a certain amount of ineptness on his part. It made him wince.

And that was the next part.

He did not need to breathe, any more than he needed to eat, and _he _knew this, but whenever he forgot the vessel began screaming at him to inhale. And if he still didn't, it _made_ him. It took control and forced his mouth open, forced him to gasp in the air that it didn't even need. It made no sense! _He_ was driving, but somehow it made demands, adjustments, decisions, all without consultation.

Was it the same for all humans or just Jimmy?

His vessel just kept... _doing things_... automatically. When he sat down, it shifted itself without asking him. All to be comfortable. When he walked, the muscles of his feet adjusted to best bear his weight. He'd begun swallowing whenever a certain pair of green eyes rested on his face, and that _really _confused him. Humans swallowed when they were eating – which he didn't do- or when the saliva glands were making too much. So why in the name of all that was Holy, had he begun to do so whenever Dean Winchester glanced in his direction?

The hair on his arms did the same thing. Whenever the hunters hand brushed his skin, what felt like electricity passed over his skin, which was ridiculous, because the man wasn't electrokinetic. A warm rush seemed to follow it, and once, curious, he had watched with mounting confusion as every single hair on his arm began to stand on end. The vessel wasn't cold, it wasn't scared or angry, and so what was happening?

He would have to ask Dean.

_A.N- Okay, I've done senses (btw thanks for the reviews/favourites/alerts guys!) and this is getting used to a body- I've been thinking of doing another chapter on feelings, but am not sure which idea to go with. Should I do one like these on emotions, (or rather his slow revelations when he starts to have them) or continue directly on from this one where he asks Dean what all these responses/emotions he is feeling but doesn't understand mean. The first ones been done quite a few times, but if enough people want me to I'll write my own perspective on it- so if you want me to do one of them (or both) drop me a review and let me know! _


	3. A Lesson On How Much Fear Sucks

_A/N- this is just to say sorry for the massive delay in posting this- I've just been unable to think of how to set this out, and inspiration finally struck this evening. Thanks for your patience, and I really hope you enjoy this._

Well... This Is Interesting...

Castiel, in his innocence, had thought bodies were bad.

The eldest Winchester sat not three feet away, poring over a laptop with a frown Uriel would have been proud of, and Cas- as the Winchesters had taken to calling him-was fighting down fear. Given his relative inexperience he was rather proud of how he'd managed the emotion so far, but the more he'd thought about it, the more he'd realised that this, in itself was the problem.

He _felt. _Castiel, Angel of the Lord and Appointed Guardian of the Righteous Man, was _feeling._

Well, strictly speaking he'd always felt. In a way. He'd felt the love of the Almighty as a constant presence since the first day of his existence, and yes, sometimes he'd felt a fleeting pity for the state of the human race. But now he was actually down here, he was totally unprepared for the _violence_ of the feelings that were stirring.

Take hunting for example; before, when he had too, it had been clinical. Detached. Block, punch, dodge, counter, repeat, exorcise Demon as soon as possible- a predictable process perhaps, but one that required no emotion. Now, and he shuddered to think of it, he got angry. He didn't like it particularly- hated the tightness in his chest and burning of his breath in his lungs and the red haze it gave his vision, but there it was. It started low, building whenever he heard a sound that meant a Winchester had taken a hit till it was all-out rage, and he had to slam the barriers back down before he lost control. Because losing control would be a very, very bad idea- the very thought of green eyes burning made him want to stab something.

It should have been terrifying. It _was_ terrifying; the majority of the time it was all he could feel, and it was only through supreme force of will that he was still functioning at all. He didn't know when it had started but now he could feel them, feel the doorways to doubt that he'd been warned against cracking open with increasing frequency, and without even meaning to he'd _defied heaven. _If they ever found out...

"Cas?" The alarmed tone broke through his reverie, and he blinked to find Dean looking right at him, green eyes glowing with concern beneath the frown. Unable to help it, he stiffened, unsure of how long he'd been standing there. Staring.

"It is nothing, Dean. Go back to your research." He was proud of that. No matter how bad things were, it never showed in his voice, never affected his body in ways that were noticeably unusual.

The hunter looked down again, but the frown deepened as the silence resumed, save for the clacking of keys.

"Dean."

"Yeah Cas?" He didn't look up, eyes fixed on the screen in front of him, and Cas wondered idly if Sam had given him permission to use it.

"What does happy feel like?"

_That got his attention_; and the thought held a strange kind of glee as the hunter looked up sharply, closing the laptop with a snap that echoed across the silence.

Slowly, he rose, moving softly across the space between them till he was less than an inch away, suddenly very large and somewhat threatening. There was something indefinable in the glittering green depths, and Cas could feel every movement of his chest as he breathed in and out, could smell the beer Sam had spilled on his t-shirt at lunch.

"Happy... is kinda hard to define. It's a lot of things, but mostly it's when you see something and you want to smile. It's when you keep smiling even when your face starts hurting, and when you laugh till your stomach aches. It's when someone walks into a room and you don't want anything else, you're good with what you have right in front of you." The hunters lips curved in a small smile, glad Cas didn't know what was going on in his head. What that confused expression did to him- and so what if he'd lied a little? The last part wasn't happy, that was lust, but he figured he was allowed a little leeway, given his practically saintly patience and self control.

Cas nodded, storing the information away for future use, but he didn't step away. The air grew heavier, harder to pull into his lungs, and Dean knew he should just look down, or at the window, anywhere but the clear blue eyes that featured so often in his dreams, but he couldn't.

They were far too lost, and far too alone.

Slowly, so slowly Cas began to frown, his arms came up to rest on the angels face. Gently, so gently he stroked his cheekbone with his thumb, and oh so carefully he pulled the angel down till his lips touched a cool forehead. He felt Cas stiffen as they connected, and Dean didn't push it even as the angel relaxed, leaning down so their foreheads were touching, arms loose around his angels shoulders, an age old gesture of comfort from one warrior to another.

Dean wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, in their cloud of warmth and safety, but eventually the beeping of the laptops battery warning pulled him away. Cas didn't move, standing transfixed as he shut it off, didn't move when Dean pulled him towards him, hand warm and comforting in his. Another kiss, this one on the temple as they heard Sam come through the door.

Sam said nothing when he saw their locked hands. He said nothing when he saw how close they were standing, didn't comment on the obvious air of intimacy that surrounded the two.

He didn't say anything at all, in fact- until he saw Dean had his computer.

_At the end of this mini-trilogy, would a review be too much trouble? Please and thank you!_


	4. And Now For Pain

_I wasn't planning on there being any more to this series, but the new season (despite being all kinds of awesome) has been rather depressing, and this just came out whilst watching 7x02. I'm kinda ambivalent on what they've done with Castiel, because it all depends on what they do next and where they take the story, but I had to get this down._

And Now For Pain;

Castiel knew pain. After being human, or as human as it was possible for a fallen angel to be, it was one of the things he'd gotten used to. Damaging yourself caused you pain, so you didn't harm the area further and learned not to do the same thing next time. Even as an angel he'd known pain- looking down on Earth he'd seen centuries and centuries of it, but now something was ripping him apart from the inside, and he couldn't fight it.

He couldn't fight the Leviathan. He knew it even as he tried, even as he pushed the souls back into purgatory with all the Grace he had left, but they wouldn't go, sticking to him like oil on his insides, black and insidious and in control. They had him, and so they took him, forcing him to smile at Dean as they threatened death with his mouth, as they took Jimmy's body and made him lurch out of the door and away from Dean.

And even though he didn't have eyes anymore, lights were exploding behind them, because limbs he didn't possess were being devoured as the Leviathan fed on his Grace. Because time goes differently inside a body, and years can pass in seconds, but the pain of his Grace was nothing to the pain in his soul, and so he was content to sit, to sit and wait as he was consumed.

And Castiel, no longer a God, no longer even an Angel, thinks about pain.

He thinks about the agony on Dean's face when he was drunk on power, when all he'd wanted to do was help, and the souls had been a cushion between him and that anguish. He remembers the priest as he chokes on his own flesh, all the while claiming to be like Father, and his heart aches at his presumption. His pride is gone now, swallowed up by shame, and even as the Leviathan withdraws because there is endless time for them to torment him, and there is no torment sweeter than hope denied. But now he can feel the agony sliding through him like a knife; he remembers seeing Sam fade, slowly but surely, he remembers how Sam fell apart and Dean couldn't save him, he remembers his own torment, when Dean had looked through him in the hospital, and he had known then he couldn't fix them.

He can see Dean's face as he tore down Sam and broke his mind, and if he still had his vessel he would vomit, being the focus of all that hatred and despair.

He remembers, as the water closes over his body and Jimmy's body begins to dissolve like sugar, something Gabriel had said to him once.

_The road to Hell is paved by good intentions. Or that's what the humans say._

And it was true. Because his intentions had become more important than the brothers, the brothers he swore to protect, the brothers he Fell for, the brothers who were family. And he'd hurt them, as surely as plunging a dagger into their chests and twisting it.

Dean won't forgive him. He'd almost admitted it, back when he'd had control and the souls were still shrieking at him, back when he'd needed it so desperately he could taste it. And lo and behold, he's surprised himself again, because he hadn't thought anything could hurt more that breaking Sam, but another wave of agony rips through him, that Dean will not mourn his death.

And then he thinks his last coherent thought; no wonder Hell is a place of torture, because nothing is worse than pain. It obliterates everything, till all you are is the drive to escape it, to do anything to just _make it stop_.

And then it does.

_I can only apologise for this piece of angst- if they bring Cas back there may be more ficlets, hopefully happier, but unless they do, I think this'll be the final one. _

_Was it any good?_


End file.
